Our favorite games were killing. Our favorite books were death. It had been beaten into us: God is love. Not the parched face and gnarled capes across a stick body; jittering in the nude sky, we couldn't see trying to touch us for the blood in our ey...
But there was little heart to our lust, only the confusion of not knowing how long we'd have in our bodies.
The clock sweats out each minute of what meat is left to us.
